Hotel XXX
by Stre
Summary: AU! Random cracky setting. Maka works in room service. Soul is a famous pianist staying at the hotel. Lots of citrus.
1. First Encounter

**A/N:** No more trolls and back to work! Actually, this story has been in progress over at Grigori Wings (the awesome SoMa forum), so if you want any WIP spoilers, go check out the fanfiction section on that site.

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><p><strong>HOTEL XXX<strong>

Chapter 1

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><p>"FORD! Get your ass up here and fix this fuckin' thing for me before I break it into pieces!" She nearly shatters her headset from the sheer volume of her voice, then lets her light weight sink into the lush carpeted floor as she falls into a cross-legged sitting position, not caring that her black pencil skirt hikes up in a very unlady-like manner. Her slender fingers rake her ash blonde hair, reaching for the elastic tie that holds her bun neatly in place, to finally let the strands loose as if it would somehow ease her frustration.<p>

She looks like a dishevelled mess, but she doesn't give a rat's ass in this moment because when Maka Albarn was pissed off, her wrath surfaced like a rogue that could breathe fire, and she didn't hesitate to burn everything in her path. Poor Ox Ford. The tech hadn't done anything at all, but since he was in charge of the hotel's equipment, he unfortunately had to be on the receiving end of her flaming tongue.

It only takes a few minutes of wait before the diligent mule makes his appearance, bursting open the mahogany door and strutting in like a pumped up hero ready to save the day. She chuckles at his ridiculously serious demeanour, and her mood somewhat lightens when she realises that her reaction may have also been absurdly dramatic for such a trivial matter.

Nevertheless, the equipment pissed her off. Or more specifically, she wanted to destroy that _fridge_.

"So what's wrong with it? Cuz if there are any electrical problems, I should probably call Éclair instead." He inspects the accursed object with minutiae, but quickly frowns when he can't immediately find the problem.

"The shit doesn't fit," she points at her cart containing the stock that she is supposed to replenish, "I don't have time to fool around. Get me a new fridge cuz this one can't hold what I'm supposed to put in it."

"Whoa there, Albarn. That's not possible because it's not like we have spares just lying around, but we can work with what we have." He pulls out a screwdriver and gets to work on fiddling the height of the shelves. "See, it's just like a game of tetris; you gotta cram as many pieces in without wasting an inch of space."

"Ox, I don't have _time_ to play _tetris_!" she grits her teeth, feeling her impatience rise once more. "I've got eight more floors of minibars to check, and I'm _alone_ on the job."

"Well then, you better learn how to curve cuz there will be more fridges with different models, so let me just show you what you can do because it _is_ possible." He grabs a few items from the cart and proceeds to fill things in like a jigsaw puzzle, or tetris as he prefers to call it. "The tall bottles don't need to be in a standing position, so it's okay to lay them flat like this, but I've adjusted the shelf so it's not an issue right now. Oh, and these Red Bulls are the best, use them to your advantage; the shape is compact and people are always thirsty for energy drinks…"

He sure can be insanely nerdy at times, but Maka appreciated his efficiency as he completed the job with ease, slipping in more advice and keeping their interaction professional. It calmed down her nerves, but only by a tad.

"I just don't get it. We're supposed to be a five-star hotel, but they can't even afford to staff more people!" she complains, inserting the last piece to their now complete puzzle.

"They didn't anticipate so many check-outs for the low season. But the company's just a cheapskate, regardless of their so-called prestigious rank…I've met the CEO before, this guy named Excalibur and he's really an infuriating douchebag." He narrows his eyes in utmost disgust. "Anyways, time's ticking, so you better get going on the rest. Good luck!"

Ox was right: she really needed to rush her ass off because the remaining rooms had to be replenished before the assigned check-in time, which roughly left an hour for the next eight floors. But she could do it, even if she had to bully time itself to stop, she would succeed because she was Maka Albarn.

Her revitalised body pushes the cart back into the hall, ploughing forward like a zealous soldier on a mission, or just a crazy tousle-haired hotel pawn that was fuelled by any sort of challenge. She doesn't have time to complain about her life and how it was outrageous that Shibusen Academy's top grad student had to put up with such unfair labour to makes ends meet, but at least the pay was better than average and it could support the cost of living alone.

The hour passes in a flurry, and before she can even feel the blisters erupting on the balls of her tired feet, she finally arrives at the last room, the Grande Suite on the penthouse floor. She suddenly feels her body collapse, perhaps at the sight of the comfy king-sized bed that seems so inviting with its luxuriously soft duvet and the myriad of pillows that look like clouds floating in her green eyes. Sitting never did any harm, so her legs relax for a bit, kicking off the shoes that were binding her poor heels.

She really regrets taking Tsubaki's shift which was scheduled _after_ this one, in another six hours. Her co-worker friend had called last-minute and it was the first time that she asked for a favour, so Maka felt obliged to accept since she nevertheless had a soft heart, despite her fiery temper. She should probably get some homework done; that was what she had originally planned for her long break, but the exhaustion was starting to blur her thoughts.

Maybe it would be okay to rest her aching back for a few minutes on this sinfully comfortable bed. The Grande Suite probably wasn't even booked because it was reserved for the big shots that stayed at the hotel for longer periods of time, and there was usually a lot of hype among the staff when a famous rich-ass was scheduled to stay. Five minutes of shut-eye would suffice. Only a little power-up, a mere _five_ minutes, she assured herself before closing her lids to block off the outside world.

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><p>"Wes, you're an idiot. What I need right now is sleep; not a fuckin' <em>escort<em>. I'm hanging up. Later." Shoving the cellphone into the pocket of his leather jacket, he lets out a deep sigh that momentarily catches the cab driver's attention, but his menacing ruby-red eyes reflecting in the rear-view mirror are enough to ward off the nosy stranger who immediately averts his gaze back onto the road.

He really was exhausted from the long hours of travelling and all he wanted to do was get some decent sleep in his hotel room, so that he could be fully rested for the stupid piano concertos he was assigned to play in the subsequent days. If it weren't for his damn brother's minor injury, he could have avoided this situation entirely; Wes had pleaded him on bended knees, emphasizing that he was the _only_ resort and that their family's reputation was on the line if he didn't accept the job. It really left him no option, not by the prospect of tainting his surname, but only because he was inexplicably weak to his brother's words and felt too guilty to decline.

Visiting Death City nevertheless had its perks, namely their thriving jazz scene that he was eager to check out when his energy would return, which was definitely not any time soon. Indeed the night was young with the clock only striking eight, but his mind somehow couldn't focus properly; he totally just tipped the nosy cab driver way too much, and as his slouching posture makes its lazy way to the hotel's front desk, he finds himself committing yet another blunder.

"Sorry for the delay Mister Eater, but we cannot find your name in our system," the strict-looking receptionist politely announces, still frantically searching on the computer's reservation database.

"Oh shit, did I just say _Eater_?" he answers back, realising that he had just given his stage name without even realising it. "I meant _Evans_; it should be under Soul _Evans_."

And of course, by the mere sound of those magical five letters, the hotel staff rushes to remedy the situation, apologizing profusely for the mix-up even though it was Soul's mistake in the first place. Before his hazy mind can process his surroundings, he finds himself with the keycard in hand, standing in front of a mahogany door on the dead-silent penthouse floor of this high-class quarter. He swipes the card and enters the dark chamber, eager to finally conk out on the bed.

But after flicking on the lights, he is confronted by a surprise, or actually, it wasn't all that unexpected in hindsight. _Stupid Wes_. He always knew that his brother had connections, but this was downright impressive. It had only been twenty minutes since their conversation, but Wes somehow managed to order an escort in that very little time frame, unless he had it planned much in advance and only let his tongue slip at the last minute.

Regardless, she seems rather weird for an escort. Dressed in a modest knee-length black skirt and a prim button-up blouse, the lanky woman lies haphazardly on the bed, teasing his desire to sleep as her serene face comfortably rests among that cloud of pillows. He wonders if he should just wake her up and tell her to get the fuck out because he was not in the mood for entertainment, but when he hears the soft dozing breaths along with her expression in a peaceful bliss like some sweet innocent angel, he instead feels the urge to taint her, to strip off her wings and damn her from this sleeping sanctuary.

Weren't escorts supposed to be awake and ready to serve their client? Yet this oddball was slacking on the job. The sight irritates him and his well-hidden sadistic dark side resurfaces momentarily: he would have to teach her a lesson for trespassing _his_ heavenly quarter.

Pianist fingers tug at the buttons of her shirt, easily opening up the first barrier that hides her small lumps of treasure. He doesn't bother unhooking her bra and instead slides his palm under the second wall, sneaking inside and aiming for the little trophy at the top of the mound. He gives her nipple a little pinch and she immediately reacts with a slight squirm, but soon eases into the sensation as he continues to massage it with care and lets his other hand grab the twin trophy on the mirror end.

He nudges her bra upwards, and the treasures come into full view, reflecting ceremoniously in his mischievous red eyes. She wasn't stacked abundantly, but the shape looked tasteful and those hard nipples invited his mouth to dive in for a bite, which he doesn't spare even a second of hesitation as he quickly latches onto the prize and sucks it with a satisfying pop. She unconsciously lets out a moan and he suddenly doesn't feel that tired anymore.

His hands dig for more gold, venturing lower to cup her firm ass while he continues to caress her breast with his tongue. He searches for an opening and finally finds the zipper that unlocks this other vault; he pulls it down to reveal boring white cotton panties and she shifts in her sleep from the rough movement. Maybe he gave his brother too much credit because this escort was likely a last-minute choice. Sure she had a pretty face, but her prude attire didn't seem to fit the image of the industry, and he wonders if this was yet another prank planned by Wes. But he doesn't give a shit because she lets out another enticing moan, and his adrenaline picks up at the sound; his ears were always sensitive to pleasant music and her voice certainly riled him up.

With his newfound energy, hitting up some jazz would be perfect right now, but he settles for the beats of this hot piece of ass that continues to wriggle wantonly under his touch. His strong digits rub against her moist sexe and he can see the heat creeping up on her now rosy cheeks. Her lips part open as her breaths become increasingly heady, and he desperately wants to steal a kiss, to feel its softness against his.

All the while continuing his ministrations, he leans in closely to her delicate face, letting their noses collide when he slowly shortens the gap between their steamy mouths. But in the split second that it takes to finally reach his goal, her large eyes flutter open, alas waking up from her supposed wet dream.

She shrieks. So loudly that his sensitive eardrums feel like they are going to explode, he takes a step back and covers his aural assets with his palms to muffle out the damage. Her green eyes are clouded with utter confusion: she stares at him, then to her ravaged chest and finally to her skirt that has been semi-discarded. But when she realises the moist pool staining her panties, she looses it. And then shrieks hysterically once more.

He simply can't take more of the piercing noise, so he leaps onto her and clamps a hand on her mouth.

"Quiet the fuck down!" he yells while she continues to resist, still screaming and now flailing frantically to escape. He pins her down firmly with his masculine strength against her tiny frame, but Maka manages to free one of her legs and knees him in the gut instead of in the balls that she was aiming for. It nevertheless does its job, since he falls down to clutch the pain, and she frees herself from his grasp.

"B-b-back the fuck away…you…you _rapist_!" she accuses loudly, awkwardly sliding off the bed, then reaching into the side table drawer that only contains a leather-bound bible and not a handgun like in the movies. He's still winded from her previous hit, but manages to look up and make eye contact with her fiery gaze.

"Rapist?" he chokes out between pants. "Is this all part of the act? Cuz I certainly didn't sign up for any BDSM."

"B-b-D…_sign_ up…Just who the fuck are _you_?" she shouts out, holding the book protectively against her chest while she fumbles to get her skirt back on her hips.

"Who am _I_?" he says incredulously, still out of breath. "What kind of lousy escort doesn't know the name of her own client?"

"ESCORT?" Her voice pounds straight into his poor eardrum and he winces from the pain. She lets out a shrill warrior cry that stuns all movement, charging straight at him with her arms raised like a bloodthirsty killer on a rampage.

And before he can even register the image of her bare chest no longer hidden by the book, the testament comes crashing down on his skull, like the hand of God inflicting divine punishment and sending his soul straight into the white light.

All is silent when he passes out unceremoniously on the bed, and Maka rushes to fix her attire, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her headset along with the cart of replenishments for the minibar. She clumsily scurries away and hopes that he doesn't miraculously revive like the immortal Devil that she assumes him to be.

But dammit. She still has another shift, another seven hours of work in this infernal hotel, so she prays that she wouldn't have to step foot in this god-forsaken penthouse floor.


	2. Second Meeting

**Hotel XXX**

Chapter 2

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><p>"Oh. My. God. Is Soul Evans <em>really<em> staying here? Like, no one said a word about it!" a valley-girl voice gossips to another giggling airhead, but Maka doesn't pay much attention since her mind is still scrambled with thoughts of the Penthouse Demon. She doesn't even know this Soul Evans that they're fawning over, and frankly, she couldn't care less about celebrity names anyways.

"I know, like apparently, he's like way low-key. But like we totally can't like go up there cuz we're like stuck down here in the restaurant. But maybe the Mizune sisters can like take a peak cuz they're like cleaning staff and can like sneak in any room."

"Oh totally. They should like _totally_ snap a picture. But I _so_ want to see him in the flesh. I heard he's like _so_ hot."

"Oh he _is_. I like only caught like a glimpse when he was like checkin' in. Yumi's no fun and like, didn't say much about his looks, but then ya know, she's like way older than him."

"Totally, Yumi's such a drag. But she's _so_ lucky cuz she gets to like meet all of the guests since she's like the main receptionist or whatever."

The valley girls continue to gossip and Maka wants to the throttle them because their annoying speech pattern grates at her ears, but she is forced to endure it while she finishes her dinner in the staff room. If only she hadn't slept for so long, she would have been able to eat at a different time slot, particularly one without these stupid bimbos chattering away.

"Oh tell me about it. Red eyes. They're like soooo sexy. And so unique."

"And his white hair. It sounds weird, but it's like totally hot."

Hang on. Red eyes and white hair? Those features sound awfully familiar.

"D'you know like which room he's like staying in?"

"No clue. Probably like on the penthouse? I totally wouldn't be surprised if it's the Grande Suite. He's like super rich."

"Oh shut up~~ we like _soooo_ gotta get the Mizune sisters to check~~"

Maka can no longer find the appetite to finish her last two bites of food because there is something curdling in her stomach, an awful mix of foreboding and disaster. Gossip hardly ever held any truth, but this information sounded too spot-on to be mere coincidence, and she shudders at the thought of the consequences.

In her memory, she had only fallen asleep for _five_ minutes, but during her slumber, she had experienced the wildest wet dream she could have ever conjured in her lifetime—the musky scent of a masculine presence, the feeling of sturdy digits rubbing against her sensitive walls, the wet circles tracing around her modest hills…

But waking up to a pair of demon-red eyes. That was _not_ part of her imagination. Or being physically stripped, in the _real _world, with an _actual_ man hovering over her vulnerable body. In that moment, she had honestly thought that it was one of those dreams in a dream where she would wake up and realise that it was all just a figment of her own crazy perverted mind, but when he didn't disappear from her sight, she had to resort to desperate measures of self-defence because she was sure he was going to rape her.

The valley girls take their leave, and Maka quietly follows suit, since her shift starts in a mere two minutes, but there is a pressing matter that she needs to confirm. If the Penthouse Demon was indeed the famous guest, she would be in so much shit for knocking his lights out. Her status pales in comparison to his, so there was no way that her douchebag boss Excalibur would stand up for a mere pawn, heck she would not only get fired but she might even get sued for assault! She rushes to the reception desk to seek confirmation.

"Azusa!" she pants, catching the receptionist that was just about to leave. "I need a favour. Can you check up a reservation for me?"

"Oh Albarn," she says taken aback. "My shift's over. Is it that urgent?"

"Yes." Maka gives the biggest green-eyed plea that she can muster, and the usually strict receptionist can't help but fold at the sight, so she quickly returns to her computer and ushers the poor girl to continue with her request.

"Can you tell me if anyone's booked for the Grande Suite?"

"Grande Suite? I don't even need to look into the database. It's the famous pianist Soul Evans staying in there."

Shit. The valley girls guessed right.

"He's really quite eye-catching, may I add," Azusa continues when Maka doesn't respond with any sign of life. "His hair is a shocking white and he has piercing red eyes. He was wearing a black leather jacket when he came in, and I must admit that he didn't appear like a dignified pianist, but I'm sure his talents are unrivalled if he can stay in our most expensive room."

"Right. Umm… thanks for the info. Have a good night," Maka manages to finally say, despite being utterly shell-shocked.

Goodbye life. Or rather, goodbye money that will support her living expenses. But maybe there was still hope. If she could avoid him, he would never know that it was indeed a hotel pawn that had hit him, and he wouldn't complain to the company. If she remembers correctly, he thought that she was an escort, so as long as she can keep her distance, she wouldn't have to suffer the consequences.

And by the luck of the draw, her shift was passing miraculously well. Four hours melted away without any drama or any sign of the cursed Penthouse Demon, so Maka felt confident that she was in the clear. She really had been worrying for nothing, and even if the demon was staying at the hotel for the rest of the week, she only worked the weekend shift, so the probability of running into him on a separate occasion was rather slim. She essentially just needed to survive this shift.

Another hour flies by and she only has two more to go. The clock marks 2AM, so most guests are asleep on this Sunday night (or Monday morning), in fact, she is also feeling sleepy despite her long nap. Her eyelids droop, shutting momentarily as her mind drifts into hazy slumber-mode, but a loud buzz jolts her back to her waking senses—

"Yo Albarn," barks out the voice of her energetic co-worker on her headset. "Room service for the Grande Suite. Pick up the food and deliver it asap cuz our guest didn't sound all that pleasant."

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><p>Not all hope is lost, or so her stubborn optimism tries to convince herself as she carries the silver platter containing late-night exquisite dinner to the highest floor of this cursed hotel. The light had been dim in that room, and their <em>activities<em> had happened in a flurry, so it was _entirely_ possible that he wouldn't recognise her face; she wasn't all that distinct with drab ash-blonde hair and average features, or hopefully the Word of God altered his memory for the better, particularly into one that didn't involve her clocking him over the head.

She just has to act natural, she tells herself. Taking a few deep measured breaths to calm down her frantic heart, she knocks lightly on the mahogany door and awaits her fate.

The door creaks open at an unnervingly slow pace to finally reveal a slouching figure in nothing but a bathrobe, with the scent of freshly showered masculine skin pervading her senses. His eyes are downcast and Maka wishes that they would stay like that, but much to her dismay, he inevitably looks up to face her.

"YOU!" he yells out, droopy eyes widening in shock.

"Please enjoy your meal, Mister Evans," she politely announces, ignoring his appalled expression, and simply handing him the tray to finish her job.

"Oh heck no, bring that shit back. I bet you poisoned it," he accuses scathingly, and she swallows the urge to dump the platter all over his clean handsome face.

"I can assure you that our services are top quality. But if it _re_assures you in the least, the cooks and room service staff work in separate departments." She flashes him a professional plastic smile that he ignores entirely.

"Ah, so you work in room service?" he comments nonchalantly. She keeps the smile in place, despite realising that she had just dug her own grave.

"Evidently," she curtly responds, still holding the tray that he has yet to take, which erases all openings of making a swift escape.

"Ya know, that brute strength of yours knocked me out for nearly _five_ hours. It could have given me a concussion." His tone is casual, and it seems to push her wrong buttons. "I didn't realise that your _top quality _service includes the staff trespassing rooms and not to mention, with the added _bonus_ of assault."

Fuck this, she can't stand his sarcasm and she was never any good at holding back her emotions, so she lets her tongue fly impulsively out of her mouth.

"_You_ are the one who molested _me_. What the fuck was I supposed to think, waking up with a man in my face, and my clothes half undressed?" She shoves the tray at him and forces his reflexes to catch it when she slackens her grip. "I didn't have time to think cuz in my perspective, you were a _rapist_."

"Whoa there, short-stacked," he barks back and receives a deathly glare. "Now what the hell was _I_ supposed to think, walking in _my_ room, and seeing a chic sprawled over the bed and practically begging to be fucked. Cuz in _my_ perspective, you were an _escort_!"

She's nearly emitting steam from her ears and she desperately wants to inflict severe damage on this infuriatingly degrading asshole's head, but she manages to stifle it all when she remembers that her job is on the line.

"Okay fine, we both made a mistake," she begrudgingly admits, repeatedly telling herself to drop the argument and leave. "It was a misunderstanding, but now it's clear, so case closed. Have a good night, Mister Evans." She turns on her heels, ready to finally flee from the Penthouse Demon, but he grabs her wrist to keep her firmly routed in place.

"Now wait a second. We're not done. I'm aching cuz of you," he growls out and she looks at him sceptically. "No seriously, my back's completely sore cuz you left my passed out body in a jumble; you could have at least placed me in a position where I wouldn't get all sore from lying awkwardly for _five_ hours!"

"Oh well _sorry_ that I didn't have the time to arrange your limbs! I was too busy running away after getting _molested_ by a stranger!"

She does have a point, and he doesn't feel proud about what he had done, but he wasn't going to let her go just yet.

"So should I tell your boss about this one? I mean, is it normal for the staff to take a nap on their patron's bed?"

That sure shut her up.

"Or I could take you to court," he continues with a low menacing voice. "My body's worth a lot cuz I gotta perform, and this ache's gonna be a bitch tomorrow. It might fuck up my performance, so my reputation's really on the line."

Shit. This was exactly what she had been dreading. Indeed she was so pissed off that her face probably looked like a tomato, but it wasn't the time to get angry because her job was at stake.

"What do you want from me?" she whispers, fearing the worse.

"Come in. You're gonna be my m—

The door closes to drown out the last word of his sentence, leaving Maka Albarn confined with her newly proclaimed title in the privacy of the Penthouse Demon's lair.


	3. Third Perspective

**A/N:** I'd just like to warn people that this story hardly has any plot, and it's centered around shameless casual smut. So if that's not your thing, I'd suggest to stop reading while it's still early. But if it _is_ your thing, well, I hope you like what's to come. ^_^

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><p><strong>Hotel XXX<strong>

Chapter 3

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><p>…<p>

He loosens the tie of his terrycloth bathrobe and casually lets the large sleeves fall from his shoulders. Sliding down but gathering around his elbows, the fabric unveils a teasing amount of delectable skin along with a tasteful view of his upper body that is now left bare. His toned muscles are still compressed from the steamy hot shower, freshly glistening in the dim light like the fleeting sparks of cooled down steel from a welder's flame, while soft yellow hues envelop the atmosphere as the incandescent bulbs mimic candlelight with their subdued intensity. These earthy tones enrich his already tanned complexion that blends into the surroundings like sfumato brushstrokes of a renaissance painting, casting every line of his angular shape into smooth shadows that complete this smoky dreamscape.

…

He throws the robe carelessly to the side like some unintentional strip-tease movement that sends her mind reeling into this unreal fantasy. His feet drag to the king-sized bed where he sets himself on the lush carmine duvet; his eyes shoot up like intoxicating red wine inviting her to come close and drink till the sun rises. She takes the offer.

…

Sheen of sweat builds on the palms of her hands while the beats of her increasingly erratic heart pump right down to the arch of her feet that stagger as she approaches his glory. She's nervous and a little scared. But her courage is unrivalled and she leaves her apprehension behind. The skirt feels cumbersome with its knee-length modesty that restricts fluidity as it binds the ease of their imminent activity, so she slides it off without further instruction, thus revealing creamy soft skin that he has previously sampled.

"So where should we start?"

"Take it from behind."

"So turn around."

"And get on the knees."

"Sure. And ummm… no warm up?"

"Naw, I can take it dry."

"You sure?"

"We're not prepared and we don't have much time, so yeah. Just go ahead."

"Alright, if you say so. Here goes nothing."

"Arrrgghhhh~~~"

"Ughmmmmm….."

This is fuckin' hard. And fuckin' torture for the both of them. But it will get better, at least for him. She can already feel the aches settling in, but she reminds herself that this is punishment for snoozing away like lil' Goldilocks in the big bad bear's bed.

…

"Faster? Harder?"

"B-b-both. Aaaahhhmmmmm…."

…

Masochism. That's what this should be called because the excruciating pain tips into the world of pleasure. Gripping onto firm muscle. Pummelling with brute force. The loud howls and desperate whimpers hit every wall, crashing down like the tower of Babel. But the chaos is laced with delight, a sick twisted version of satisfaction, as the knots of tension release and blossom into pure bliss.

…

"F-ffuuccckkkk~~"

"You okay?"

"K-k-keep going."

…

Hard bone against tight flesh. Like a hammer on wrought iron. The smacking noise viciously echoes into the night, but the large room allows all the privacy of being as loud as they want. And they abuse the privilege. To deafening heights. But she's getting exhausted and simply wishes for it to end; he's also at his limits, so he finally comes to that point of full satisfaction. Both panting heavily, she falls in a limp mess on the bed, utterly depleted from all of her energy, her muscles quivering from the intensity of the session.

"Thanks… hang on, I didn't even catch your name."

"It's Maka."

"Okay, so you'll come by tomorrow?"

"What?"

"I want it every night, for the whole duration of my stay, meaning for the next two weeks."

"Two weeks? But I only work weekends, so I don't come to the hotel everyday!"

"Tough shit. I expect you here every night."

She's too tired to protest, and it's not like she can do anything about it since the bastard holds the reigns to her income. She hates being out of control, but really, it was her fault for taking a nap in the demon's lair, so she has to accept the consequences. She shoots him a deep scowl and gets dressed while he continues to lie there like a useless heap of satisfied mush.

"I'll bring some massage oil next time. Doing it dry was too much friction for my hands. They're burning up now." She tries to smooth out the wrinkles of her skirt, but quickly gives up when a jolt of pain rushes into her sore forearm and travels to her dorsal muscles. "And now _my_ back's hurting from hovering over your body on my knees like that. Gosh, I shouldn't have listened to you. I think I'll stand next time and massage you by the edge of the bed like how it's normally done."

"Aw c'mon, but I liked having your ass sitting on me," he drawls out with an amused chuckle. She replies with another deep frown and abruptly stalks off to the exit without even saying goodbye.

"See ya later, Maka," he says to the clicking door. "Ah shit, my dinner's all cold."


	4. Fourth Impression

**A/N**: For those who were confused in the previous chapter, I'd like to clarify that the ambiguity was deliberate! It's meant to give an impression of kinky doggy-style pronz, when it was actually just an intense massage. I tease, cuz that's my job. ~_^

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><p><strong>Hotel XXX<strong>

Chapter 4

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><p>Her hand viciously swats the buzzing alarm clock that forces her back to dreadful reality. Normally, she would wake up naturally with the laughing sun, fully motivated to start her long hours of university lectures and rigorous studying, but for the past four days, her body feels like the living undead, with a pasty complexion drained of all blood along with heavy bags hanging under her eyes, and not to mention the sharp pain coursing throughout her stiff body, courtesy of the Penthouse Demon's demanding massage regiment.<p>

As her tenacious perseverance manages to hoist her cadaver out of tangled sheets and into the bathroom where the shower may revitalize her still-dormant human spirit, she worries about the warning Azusa had given her before leaving the hotel last night. Apparently, the gossiping staff was suspicious of Maka's routine, wondering why she had been coming into work when she wasn't even scheduled. She couldn't possibly admit the truth, so she told Azusa a lie that could buy her a little time—she said that she had lost a precious item and was desperately combing the floors to find it—but she knew that her excuse could not hold any longer and she needed a new cover for tonight.

Her drenched body steps out of the shower, secures a fluffy towel around her skinny frame, and wipes the foggy mirror to observe her reflection. At least she no longer looks like death, she thinks to herself as she brushes her teeth, still gazing into her own green eyes to somehow find an answer to her problem.

And then, simplicity dawns onto her, the solution popping up like a cartoon lightbulb above her dripping ash blonde locks. Quickly rinsing out the minty foam from her mouth, she rushes for the telephone to make a call.

* * *

><p>She doesn't know why she let Blair have her way, but she now regrets it as she nudges down the tight short skirt that rides up her thighs at every stride she takes. Out of all the outfits her promiscuous friend had offered, <em>this<em>one was actually passable because she was at least able to tone down the precarious length with black pantyhose that covered her legs and made her feel less naked. Moreover, the upper portion of the ensemble wasn't that bad at all: despite adamantly appreciating the boost of the push-up bra, her bosom was modestly hidden by a smart blazer that gave her a nice added shape with its crisp angles and classy allure.

To top off the look, Blair transformed Maka's usual lank hair into luscious waves, and threw in a pair of large celebrity-like sunglasses to hide her distinct green eyes. But it's the heels that really complete the disguise: five inch stilettos pummel loudly into the ground, turning heads at every piercing step she makes. The excessive attention could not be a good thing, but at least it hides her identity really well because the Maka Albarn that everyone knew would never flaunt her female attributes like this doppelganger is currently doing.

Soul likely agrees, since he doesn't recognize the smokin' hot figure greeting him when he opens the door of his room.

"Ah shit, was it a guy named Wes that called you here?" He scratches the back of his head, thinking that his brother had once again ordered an escort without his consent.

She smacks him hard in the chest, enough to startle him out of his thoughts and curse his stupid brother for sending a _real_one that specialised in BDSM.

"It's _me_, you idiot," she whispers out, forcing her entry and removing her sunglasses to reveal her identity. "I needed to come incognito cuz my coworkers are getting suspicious."

He's still too shocked by her appearance to properly respond. Still gaping at her, he blurts out the first thing that pops in his mind.

"Fuckin' hot," he mumbles.

"What was that?" She honestly didn't catch his slur of words.

"Oh umm.. aren't you gonna get _hot_in that coat?" he quickly corrects, tugging at the long sleeve of her blazer.

"Well, it's not a _coat_, since it's meant for indoors. I'll be fine," she brushes off casually, walking further into the suite. "So where do you want it tonight?"

Somehow the implication of that sentence seems to sound extremely different, now that they come from pink glossy lips while her long sexy legs walk so seductively towards his bed where she rests her tight ass by the corner. He refuses to think that he's just some regular dude that wants to jump any girl with fine legs and a mini-skirt because no, he's not after that, but fuck, he couldn't deny her sex appeal.

He has always found Maka pretty, maybe a little prude and down-to-earth, which was entirely acceptable, but to now see her dressed like _this_, he just couldn't stop himself from feeling self-conscious. Nevertheless, Soul Evans never failed at hiding his emotions, so he played it cool and tossed away any inappropriate thoughts like pouncing on her petite body and ripping those black tights right off her gorgeous stems.

"I had a pretty intense piano session today, so my hands are a little sore. Mind starting there?" he calmly suggests, successfully hiding the war with his dick.

"Sure," she says with a smile, and he takes a seat beside her, gulping at the scent of delicious shampoo.

But when he places the backside of his hand on her lap, the feeling of self-consciousness spreads into Maka since she cannot deny the masculine presence conveyed by strong phalanges that tense up at her touch. She kneads into the firm light flesh of the palm, her tiny fingers pressing deeply to feel his solid bones, and when she massages the hard bumps of his knuckles, she nearly exhales in arousal.

This hand of his. This sinful devilish tool. Just how dextrous could he possibly be, with these Spartan-trained joints like a well-oiled machine, namely groomed to tickle ivory but certainly capable of much more. The blood rushes to tint her cheeks when she remembers that these exact fingers have once fondled her private region, thoroughly exploring her hidden secret with utmost care, to effortlessly push the right buttons of her ecstatic release.

Yet she had been asleep while these deeds were being given, so it still remains a dream, a farfetched conception of her perverted mind that she could never admit aloud. The mere existence of these perfect pieces of human anatomy sends her soul into a bothered state, and it almost angers her that she obediently has to serve the hand that has once serviced her.

"Ugh Maka, you're kindda hurting me. Can you tone down the strength a bit?"

"Oh sorry."

He's treading in very dangerous waters since their thighs are flush against one another, and any misbehaviour on the part of his male member could not be passed as unnoticed with such proximity. She had once accused him of being a rapist, so he could not afford another slip-up; he needed to alter his current position before it really was too late.

"Ya know, it's Friday night," he states in a bored tone. "We should go out and relax for once…There's some great live jazz at the joint not far off from here."

"Well umm, I don't really understand jazz," she reluctantly admits, a little embarrassed of her lack of knowledge in this field.

"There's nothing to _understand_, you just sit back and listen." He stares at her slight pout, and comes to the conclusion that he _has_to take her out. "Alright, I've decided: you're coming along."

Before she can protest, he folds his fingers into a firm grasp around the small hand that was already in his palm, and the feeling of those sinful digits silences her as they drag her out the door and into the night of cool sensual soulful jazz.


	5. Fifth Attempt

**Hotel XXX**

Chapter 5

* * *

><p>So maybe, he wasn't such a demon after all. Indeed he teased her by simply existing in that getup of black pinstripe pants and deep-red dress shirt that moved seductively at every movement of his well-toned arms, but it surely wasn't intentional so she couldn't blame him for the unsettling heat in her pit that persistently lingered throughout their jazz night out. He was such a gentlemen: never instigating any sexual manoeuvres despite sitting so closely to her slim figure on that loveseat, he instead kept rapt attention on their conversation that was animated until the wee hours of the morning.<p>

In hindsight, they didn't have much in common, but it was their differences that fuelled their curiosity, and even when the conversation dipped into a moment of silence, the atmosphere never felt awkward in the least. He was interesting and comfortable like the smooth music that he loved so much. But she was never fully at ease because of that damn heat between her thighs, and even after the many hours that have passed since their 'date', she is still feeling the remnants of desire, which poses an especially alarming problem when her headset booms with the voice of her co-worker barking out 'Room service for the Grande Suite!'

She heads to the kitchen to pick up the goods, and she is surprisingly confronted by the peculiar look of dismay on her normally upbeat co-worker.

"Albarn, check this out," he says while removing the cover of the silver platter. "Can you believe that a few strawberries and a can of whipped cream cost _sixty_bucks? The shit that rich asses can afford… it's disgusting."

"Well Rung, at least it's giving the hotel more business!" She tries to lighten his sour mood but the dark-skinned male still furrows his brow in annoyance.

"But when I think about how I gotta support my two younger siblings with the little I earn, and then some douchebag is just pissing money away, probably for some stupid kinky one-night-stand…That just _really _pisses me off." He hands her the platter before having the urge to break it into pieces.

"Yeah, it's pretty annoying, but try to not let it get to you," she offers supportively in a light tone, swallowing back the rage that is starting to build up in her gut.

She isn't mad at her co-worker for accusing Soul of being a douche that indulges in kinky sex because she _knows _that it's likely a correct assessment, particularly when she remembers their first meeting and how he didn't hesitate to fondle a sleeping woman. He probably has a kink for anonymity, and the whore upstairs in his room is just some no-name bitch that he needed to fuck because clearly he wasn't getting any for the past week, and Maka would know since she was in his room every night.

It would also explain why he hasn't made a move on her when their circumstance opened so many windows of opportunity: if he indeed got off on anonymous partners, she wouldn't be in his strike zone since she was definitely no longer a stranger, and after last night, she may even be considered a friend. A part of her feels warm at the thought of a new friendship, but it also leaves her frustrated when said friend makes her feel hot down there.

Moreover, she realises the absurdity of her current predicament. Here she is, holding the key to kink, but the hole that it unlocks wouldn't be her. And instead of feeling sad or insecure about her sex appeal, she simply stews in anger and starts to get riled up at every step towards the Grande Suite.

Her shaky hand raps on the door and the white-haired demon immediately responds, cheeks a little flushed which pisses her off even more.

"Your order, Mister _Evans_." Her eyes are cold and her body language even less friendly when she shoves the platter rather aggressively into his palms. "Enjoy the _night_," she adds crudely and turns on her heels.

"Hold on, Maka!" he quickly hollers out, rushing to grab her wrist with his sinfully beautiful hand, expertly balancing the tray with his other. "I know I said that I'd never bother you during a shift, but I really need you right now."

She stares at him with daggers as eyes. And he doesn't understand where all of this hostility is coming from, especially at the memory of their perfect night that was still fresh and lingering.

"Maka, what's wrong?" he asks cautiously, slackening his grip and moving his thumb along her pulse in an effort to soothe her with gentle petting. She however yanks herself out of his grasp and scowls.

"Look, there's no way in fuckin' hell that I'm going to assist you and your _whore_…to do… whatever it is that you _need_…I just can't take that shit…so, take me to court if you have to cuz I am _not_going to listen to your demands this time." She crosses her arms defiantly against her chest, and he is left in utter confusion at the jargon she had just spewed.

"_Whore_? What are you talking about?"

"The one in your room!" She shakes an index towards the general area behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to check if there are any intruders somehow crashing into the windows of this very high building.

"Maka, there's _no one _in here but me, and potentially you!"

"But why the hell would you order strawberries and whipped cream on a Saturday night?" She can't control the volume of her voice and she hates how it raises in pitch when she's extremely frustrated.

"Shit, you _looked_? What the hell! I thought you said the kitchen staff and room service work in different departments! I guess privacy ain't in that _top quality _service you boast about," he comments teasingly, trying to cover up his embarrassment.

"I didn't _want_ to look; my co-worker _showed _me because he was disgusted that it cost sixty dollars."

"Dammit Maka, that was the _cheapest _option on the list at this hour! How else was I going to get you to come up here?"

She doesn't know how to respond and he takes advantage of this moment of silence.

"Look, I don't know why you're so pissed off, and I know it's out of line to call you while you're working, but I can't sleep so I was wondering if you could massage my back." He eyes her with caution, trying to gauge her reaction by reaching for her wrist and ushering her to come inside. When she doesn't recoil and instead lets him drag her to his bed, he knows that she has finally calmed down.

He sets the platter by his bedside table, but doesn't even spare it a second glance as he quickly discards his shirt and dives his face into the cloud of pillows. She is thankful that he doesn't notice her lewd expression, nearly licking her lips in anticipation like some demon had infected her blood.

She approaches the tasty treat.

"Take it slow and easy tonight," he mumbles out, and pats the area of his lower back. "If you can start down there, that'd be awesome."

She doesn't utter any verbal acknowledgement, fearing that her voice would sound suspiciously lustful, so she only moves precariously close to the hunk of flesh that lies under her scrutiny, with hands quickly getting to work on the portion bordering his suggestive boxers that peak above his pants. She kneads him gently, barely putting much pressure, and almost teases his skin with light figure-of-eight traces that progressively glide higher up his dorsal muscles, reaching his shoulders then receding back down in a sensuous trickle.

He shivers unconsciously, tingling with pleasure as her hands continue to move gracefully, sometimes pushing into the knots that inevitably come undone, all the while keeping it at a comfortable pace that nearly lulls him to sleep.

She stares at his relaxed muscles that still manage to look defined and firm. Over the course of the week, she has become well acquainted with the texture of these packs of meat, but she has yet to taste them since they were usually basking in too much aromatic oil, therefore losing their original flavour. Tonight they however remained in their natural state, at just the right warm temperature, so her tongue dives in for a lick, just one trail couldn't hurt.

There is something wet crawling on his back, but he doesn't pay it much attention in his semi-conscious mind that teeters into the world of dreams. It feels terribly nice, as it seems to be stimulating his heart to work overtime, generating extra heat into his already cozy body.

Images zoom into sight, memories of his previous night with a certain leggy ash-blonde tease. The sound of jazz enters his ears, but no one seems to be present in the club aside from them, sitting dangerously close on a red plush armchair in the spotlight of a dark room. She climbs on his lap, resting her tiny ass on his thigh and he doesn't hesitate to place a hungry hand on her pantyhose-covered skin that are actually more like stockings since they do not bind the smooth surface of her bare bottom.

But when he slides his fingers beneath her tight skirt, revelling only for a brief moment the exhilarating feel of slender curvature, the music abruptly disappears and he is jolted back to his waking senses, suddenly feeling very aware of an uncomfortable tension in his groin. He bucks his hips off of the bed in an effort to give his hard problem some air to breathe, and the sudden movement alarms her.

"Shit Soul, did I hurt you?"She wonders if he had been conscious of her trailing tongue, and she feels slightly guilty of taking things a bit too far.

"No, you were great… and I'm fine now, so you can leave." He still holds his hips up in that awkward position, so she grows curious about the abrupt dismissal.

"Hey, are your abs hurting? Let me ch—

"NO!" he yells out uncharacteristically, and she flinches from his surprisingly loud voice. "Just get back to your shift and leave me alone."

The way he tries to command her doesn't sit well in her stomach, and she instinctively slaps his flesh, a hard wack on the ass to push down his bucked-up hips.

"Fuck, what da hell was that for?"

"For being an _ass_. You don't appreciate anything I do," she whines, biting her lower lip in a cute pout. "I tried really hard to get you all relaxed, and then you just get up all suddenly with your muscles tensed up again and tell me to _leave_. It's insulting trying to kick me out when the job's not even finished…"

She really seems upset, but not in the spitfire usual way, with her eyes instead glistening from built-up moisture that gives him the urge to pull her into a comforting hug. He doesn't act on his impulse, but he does flip his body around to face her, sitting up and reaching to touch her shoulder.

He was so caught up in the moment that he failed to realise the distinct bulge between his legs was now in plain view, the hard situation that he was originally trying to cover up nearly pokes into her perceptive eyes that widen in shock.

"Oh," she simply states, rather fixated on the lump that stays strong.

"Yeah," he answers monotonously, wishing that the awkwardness would kill his arousal.

"I could, you know…"

"It's fine, Maka. I'll handle it myself."

And instead of taking her leave, she frowns because she doesn't like his response one bit. A part of her was simply horny, maybe a little proud at somehow creating his arousal, but another part of her couldn't accept that he would refuse her help, and she felt all the more motivated to prove him wrong.

She pushes him back down on the bed, climbing on top of him with her knees sinking into the mattress by each of his sides. His belt buckle comes loose before he can fully register this turn of events, and his pants are nudged down in an equally swift movement that he can't stop from happening.

"Oi, just what da—

He moans. It embarrasses him to let out such an unguarded cry, but it had been completely beyond his control, since she in fact holds the reins to his gear, and boy did she know how to wield it. Her grip is tight and her strokes are fervent, but he tries to hide his pleasure by steadying his breathing and searching for eye contact.

When his gaze finally locks onto hers, she releases her clutch and he thinks that she is too embarrassed to continue, but she then challenges him with a devious smirk that reminds him of his own knack. There was no doubt that she was mocking him, for whatever reasons she concocted in her oversized brain, probably for 'insulting' her abilities.

Her body lies down completely flat on top of his, stretching out those gorgeous legs, and nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck. He however remains paralyzed since he is still trying to process just what the fuck was going on, and he couldn't seem to get his muscles moving into action, so she takes the initiative by stripping off her skirt along with her boring white underwear that doesn't look one bit boring in this context.

It was simply happening too fast. One moment he was nearly asleep from the comfortable massage, and now she was half naked while straddling his waist, piercing her devious green eyes into his apprehensive ones.

"M-m-maka, are you sure about this?"

She responds by lowering her hips dangerously close, their private parts brushing lightly against one another, but instead of opening up further for him to enter, she presses her thighs together to cage in his member like a tight trap. He cocks his brow in slight confusion.

"Did you really think I'd let you fuck me?" she asks teasingly. The moisture in her crotch certainly makes him wonder, but she firmly locks him in place and it doesn't look like any penetration will happen tonight.

"I'll allow you to go on top of me, but it's gonna be between my thighs and nowhere else," she commands sternly, ushering their bodies to switch positions since it would be easier for him to be on top. "It's all yours, Soul."

Seriously? Was she _seriously _giving him permission to fuck her between the thighs, grope her taut ass, feel her silky skin, and ravage that delicious neck with needy kisses? Seems like the case, so he immediately performs all of the above, receiving the added bonus of her cute panting and loud moans when he rubs her clit especially hard with his vigorous thrusts between her sexy slick legs.

She didn't expect this type of pleasure, but now that those large experienced pianist hands are digging into her buns while he continues to pump furiously against her bud of nerves, she grows increasingly restless and wants to feel more. She really wants him _inside_. But before her legs have time to shift the position, she hears a crackling white noise followed by—

"Albarn! Rooms 424 and 564. Hurry down here to pick up the order!" the urgent voice calls out in her headset that's miraculously still perched on her ear.

"C-c-coming," she manages to answer in a neutral tone, and realises the irony of the word she had just uttered since neither of them would be doing that tonight. Her thighs part open to release the tension around Soul's burning erection, and he groans despondently from the rejection as she pushes his body off of hers.

"Oi Maka, what's the deal?" he demands impatiently, no longer keeping a cool head because his 'head' was at the point of exploding from craving that last spurt. "I thought you were eager to finish the job!"

"Soul, I will lose my _real _job if I don't go down." She readjusts the collar of her white chemise, slides on her underwear and pulls up her skirt as quickly as she had previously discarded them. "If they knew about this, I'd get fired, so I have to hurry down. See ya tomorrow."

"Hang on, Ma—

The door clicks shut as she makes her hasty escape, and he punches the mattress in frustration. "Nice going there, Soul," he says to himself. "Sixty bucks for fuckin' blue balls…"

* * *

><p><strong>P.S.<strong> Blame the cockblock on Redemtion13; that's the prompt he gave me. ^_^


	6. Sixth Sense

_This chapter is dedicated to the awesome writer (and pron pusher), Lueur-de-l'aube._

* * *

><p><strong>Hotel XXX<strong>

Chapter 6

* * *

><p>The day shift on Sunday passes in a flurry with the usual minibar-refilling madness, and before she can find the time to pause or think about the events of the previous night, her working hours are already complete and she is confronted back to reality. The clock arm points at six, so the evening had just started and it felt like a long shot for Soul to actually be back in his room, but she decides to check anyways because it would save her the hassle of trying to sneak in the hotel again at a later time.<p>

"I'm surprised you're here," she blurts out when he opens the door to his lair, with the rays of the still bright sun somewhat blinding her as they reflect against his stark white hair.

"Yeah, I'm just going over some of the scores cuz I have the evening off to prepare for tomorrow's big day." He moves out of the way to let her in, and she heads towards his bed like she always does. "I have to perform another huge piano concerto, but that's not really what's stressing me out; there's some stupid press conference or interview shit in the afternoon…"

"Then let me relieve you of some of that tension!" she chirps with a big smile, elated at the fact that Soul was openly ranting about his concerns, instead of clamping up in awkward mono-syllable replies. "So where should we start? Maybe another hand massage?"

"Naw, I actually wanted something different this time." His tone remains flat, almost uninterested by his own suggestion despite the implication of something new and potentially exciting.

"Sure, what would you like?"

"Watsu, if you can. But if that's too complex, just a normal aquatic massage would be nice." He stares into her suddenly blank green eyes, her smile slightly faltering from the prospect of water.

"Umm.. Soul, we don't have a pool in here, and I think the one downstairs may be a little too public…" She shifts uncomfortably because she doesn't want to burst his bubble, especially when he was being so straight-forward and she didn't want to disappoint him.

He responds by snatching her wrist and guiding her to the ensuite bathroom that she has surprisingly never had the opportunity to visit.

"Holy fuck," she gasps, eyes widening at the sight before her. It really lived up to the name of 'bathroom' since the 'bath' took over half of the ridiculously large space, growing in even vaster depth by the surrounding mirrors that adorn the walls. She takes a step forward, walking on expensive white marble tiles, reaching over to touch an equally fancy counter with elaborate faucets jutting out like golden swan necks. She knows that there's a sleek shower in the corner, but she doesn't bother to inspect it because her eyes are distracted by the 'tub' that seems to be emitting steam.

"It's apparently equipped with a filtering system, or something that keeps it clean and running at all times," his deep voice snaps her out of her trance. "And it's definitely big enough for the two of us."

Not just two, but probably _eight _people could fit comfortably, outstretched. The size isn't what worries her because she realises something more alarming.

"I didn't bring a bathing suit."

"And?" He shoots her a quizzical look, his tactless behaviour getting her slightly peeved.

"Well, I'm not about to get my clothes all wet!" she exclaims, rather impatient by his nonchalance, as if getting wet in a steamy hot bath was the most normal thing to do. Sure, she had crossed a certain line yesterday, but she prefers to leave that memory in the back of her mind. He, however, doesn't give a shit.

"Then just get naked. It didn't seem like a problem last night."

She punches him hard on the arm, and continues to stare at him menacingly, itching for another hit but finally refraining since bruised limbs would likely impair his next day's important performance.

"Oi, I was just joking! I'll get you something to wear." He scurries out the room, leaving her within the swirling thoughts of this unpredictable twist of the evening, but quickly returns with an expensive red dress shirt that he throws over her head, which she wrestles off with an irritated sigh and a flail of nervous limbs.

"I-I'll change outside if you don't mind."

"Be my guest." He chuckles hardily, and she smacks him on the arm once more before vacating the steamy premises.

Now out of his sight, she slips off her skirt and unbuttons her blouse, leaving her with the dilemma of undergarments: to keep or to not keep her bra and panties, that was the question. Sure she would feel less naked with this safety net, but then they would get wet and eventually taken off to dry anyways, so she finally decides to go commando, dropping the last pieces of modesty into the heap of discarded clothes. His shirt at least covered all the necessary areas and the deep red colour would thankfully darken when subject to water, or so she tries to convince herself as she re-enters the bathroom and approaches his boxer-clad figure that has already settled itself comfortably in the 'tub'.

At the sound of her shuffling, he cracks open one of his lazy eyes and watches those creamy legs stepping over the porcelain edge, dipping a reluctant toe above the surface to test out the temperature, but immediately nestling into the soothing heat of this natural relaxation tool. He hears her genuine sigh of relief or satisfaction from the sheer comfort, and they both bask in a moment of silence to simply savour the calming effects of this peaceful atmosphere.

"So what would you like me to do?" she asks after nearly ten minutes of soaking without instigating any movement or sound. Even though she would rather laze around longer, she knows that there's still a job to do.

"Hmm… shoulders," he gruffly mumbles with his eyes still shut, sinking his body deeper into the water so that she could massage him below the surface.

Her hands reach out to perform the usual, and she has to admit that the water made her job a lot easier, almost a little too easy. In a way, the activity became rather dull since she could glide effortlessly, kneading into his muscles that were already warmed up with hardly any tension left.

And it's no surprise that he becomes satiated rather quickly, so he turns around to face her while he thinks of another area where she could work her magic. But his eyes instead get distracted, and he finds himself no longer thinking about massages when she straightens her back and her bust emerges from the surface, revealing two distinct buds that poke through the thin fabric clinging snugly against her seductively wet frame. The image does funny things to the bulge between his legs which reminds him of last night and how he still needed to get back at her.

"Hey Maka, yesterday you didn't finish your job," he states matter-of-factly, suppressing his devilish smirk that always irritated her for reasons unknown, but she huffs out in frustration regardless.

"Not this again, Soul," she mutters to herself in disbelief, thoroughly peeved that he was bringing up last night's events again.

"It's not easy to forget cuz I was hurting like hell, and had to massage myself in the end!"

"Well _sorry_ that my _real _job was on the line," she barks back, ignoring the peculiar glint of his hungry eyes. "What is it that you want me to d—

His lips slam onto hers as he pounces with mild grace, sending water droplets flying in every direction from the abrupt impact. Wet fingers subconsciously rake into his white hair, grabbing fistfuls while he continues to press against her more aggressively; she tries to momentarily push away to gasp for air, but he instead counteracts by submerging her completely underwater.

He's latched like a sealed-tight lid and she's not stupid enough to open a gap that could potentially let any water seep into their lungs, so she struggles to get them both back to the surface, but doesn't pull away from the kiss. It's not like she can get herself to reject him because that tongue of his sure knows how to move, and if she had not been seriously deprived of oxygen, she would take her time enjoying every inch of his hot mouth.

The Penthouse Demon was not only a representative of the evil underworld, but he must also be some aquatic animal because he can sure hold his breath for an inhumanly long time. She thinks of white sharks toying with their prey, and she's about to pass out before he finally lets their tangled bodies rise for air.

"F-f-fuck S-s-soul," she pants heavily when they break the contact, "D-d-don't ever do that again!"

He simply lets out a signature chuckle, that smooth baritone sending her already erratic heart into further panic.

"We just started."

In a fluid gesture, he scoops her up and heaves her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, smacking her lightly on the rear and securing her restless body into place. She struggles for freedom and screams in protest, but he only hangs onto her tighter with a hand resolutely clutched onto her hot ass that he now realises is teasingly bare under the red garment.

They leave a dripping trail of puddles from the tub to the destination that still remains a mystery to her. She doesn't mind being carried around by a man, and the feeling of his broad shoulder pressing against her flat stomach certainly arouses her, but she can never get used to this lack of control, to the vulnerable position of being swung around by another person. So when he finally lets her down, sliding her slick figure into a standing position flush against his firm chest, she is too relieved to be back on her feet that she doesn't even notice his busy hands stripping off the soaked shirt or the fact that they are now caged in a glass shower cubicle.

But when he loses _his _last fabric barrier, and that third party makes its presence known like a standing ovation, she reels back to her senses.

"S-s-soul, _what _are we doing?"

"I don't know," he whispers into her ear, taking advantage of her sensitive shell with a flick of his impatient tongue. "I have no idea what the fuck's gotten into me but I just can't stop."

She relishes the grip of strong fingers kneading into the flesh of her buttocks, while his mouth travels along her slender neck, dipping lower until he nips a beautifully perk nipple with his sharp teeth. Her breath hitches when he reaches into the crevasse and ventures deeper, but despite these steamy activities, she can't stop shivering from the open-air hitting her damp skin. He also feels the drop in their body temperature, so the shower gets flicked on without further ado, the fancy multi-headed jets shooting from various directions, and she yelps from the sudden attack of hot water adding to their tension.

They're wet in the very literal sense, and she's equally soaked where he needs it most. His problem feels unbearably hard that it was only logical for her to offer the solution, but she's too embarrassed to meet his eye, so she instead decides to turn around and take it from behind. He instinctively reaches for those enticing slim legs that part open, first gliding his strong palms across the satin surface of her pelvis, then grabbing her inner thigh to hoist her off her heels, and she eases into a low bow with her back lightly arched as her forearms meet the glass pane that offers support.

He pounds into her and she feels as liquid as the substance beating down on them. The pace rushes in like a torrent, striking increasingly deeper, upturning the soil that grounds her sanity and eroding the path that leads to her core. She moans loudly, unable to suppress her echoing voice that remains trapped within the confined space, while the pelting water splashes into finer droplets as he slams into her, wave after wave after wave.

The position becomes near-impossible to hold with her slippery arms refusing to stay in place, so he pushes her forward, her chest squishing flat against the pane to provide better leverage. And amidst the thick condensation along with her clouded vision, she nevertheless manages to peer through the glass, catching her terribly embarrassing reflection in the mirrors that cover the bathroom walls.

But instead of feeling shy, her arousal skyrockets at the image despite knowing that it will one day haunt her memories: those flushed bodies, the eyes rendered into lazy slits, the moisture making their complexion glisten and accentuate her every curve, equally defining his every muscle and bone. It makes her realise the concreteness of this experience, and as she stares into the lustful green eyes of her reflection, she fully understands the true meaning of feeling alive. This is not a wet dream or a figment of her imagination. This is reality. And a heavily pleasured one at that.

She therefore decides to convey such a message to her partner by screaming his name, shoving her voice into his ears so that he would never forget this sound or this moment. She screams his name until her wet throat dries up into a rasp, until he finally releases, unloading into her like the strong jets of liquid raining down on their joined bodies.

Although her vision may have blanked out during her climax, she could never erase the aforementioned image reflecting in the mirror, nor could he ever escape the sound of her hoarse cries bouncing off the marble tiles, forever reverberating in his now-perverted mind.

And as he pounds on piano keys during the many concertos that he must perform the following week, he can still clearly hear the rough yet feminine call of his name; it washes away all of his fears, even drowning out the rounds of applause at every fall of the curtains.


	7. Seventh Week, and Ongoing

**A/N:** After more than a year of letting this story sit around in my files, I finally decided to keep its original ending. If you've read it in the GW forum, it's not that different, but I did fix things here and there. Enjoy the humour!

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><p><strong>Hotel XXX<strong>

Chapter 7

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><p>Memories may resurface but never as vividly as their original occurrence, and in the course of the seven weeks that have passed since the last shutting click of that mahogany door, Maka Albarn starts to doubt whether the Penthouse Demon really existed. Indeed she clearly remembers his touch along with the images of his slick toned body riding hers at their most intimate, but without him in physical proximity, he remains a fragment that her mind stubbornly refuses to let die.<p>

It is for this very reason that she has been frequenting the local jazz club, the one that he had once taken her to, and tonight, she sits at the bar with a drink to nurse her longing. She has visited this place almost every night for the past week, but she usually chose a secluded corner where she could indulge in her _book_ because Maka had the strange knack of being able to read anywhere, even in this smoky and aurally-distracting environment.

But despite the change of her seating location, her intentions remain the same since she has no drive to interact with strangers. Her sole purpose was to ease her longing for Soul, and the jazzy atmosphere was like breathing in wafts of his scent.

She takes a sip of her drink, and as the mixture of fizzy soda and sharp liquor rush down her deprived throat, she recalls the feeling of his rough fingertips grazing across the expanse of her neck, trailing down to cup an excited breast, his eager lips leaning in to crash into hers. At that memory, her drink disappears in one gulp; her hand shoots up to flag the bartender for another.

One should not live with regret and she usually abides to such a motto, but she can't help but wonder if things would have turned for the better had she acted differently during their last night together. Maybe she was too soft that night, being more intimate instead of purely physical because he had certainly responded with the former, caressing her skin with utmost care, kissing her like he actually meant it, and maybe he did, she would never know. She also doesn't understand where the intoxicating contents of her glass could have possibly vanished, but she certainly knows how to get them replenished as she waves down the bartender for the next round.

She admits that Soul's first impression hadn't been the best, and that first week of intense massages was absolutely horrible, but it inadvertently led to their jazz night out that had changed everything. Memories of his second week flash before her mind, and she not only watches her sprawled legs fondled by his sinful hands, but she also recalls their silly banters, the comfortable silence, that deep voice rumbling into her ear, reminding her just how nice it could be to have someone always by her side, to have a _partner_. And then somehow, her glass is empty—how did that happen, she has no idea— so the bartender graces her once more like a faithful servant.

Being hung up over a fling was entirely unacceptable and certainly a waste of time for the studious maniac, so she had purposely refused to collect his contact information, nor had she divulged her own just in case it would lead to false hope. Moreover, saying goodbye could have meddled with her resolve since emotions had a funny way of changing her mind, and even though she had actually _slept_ by his side on the night before his departure, she had left early in the morning, clicking the door shut for the last time without saying farewell. She left him alone, the way it should be. Fuck, she needs another drink.

Her glass seems to have shrunk, or maybe she had just ordered something different. Regardless, she shoots the contents down her throat and the burning liquid races into her body like a breath of fresh air. She demands for another, and the faithful servant cannot deny a lady's orders, so he lets her shoot until she can't take any more.

What the fuck is she even doing, and where the fuck is she? She doesn't know and her mind is swimming with memories, questions, and unwanted emotions. Yet among the mental chaos, she still registers the low chatter of the club as the next performer steps up on stage. The cool notes of the piano then fill the room, tugging at her heartstrings even in her extreme state of intoxication.

Tears start to form, but she refuses to cry. She doesn't even need to turn around to see that it's not him because she can already tell by the sound of that light-hearted melody. Soul would never play like that; it just didn't match his personality. She doesn't know why she is torturing herself by willingly sitting through these reminders of his existence, and her threshold for pain has officially reached its limit. She stands up to finally take her leave.

Strangers throw her wary glances since she is a single female getting wasted on a weekday night, but they luckily mind their own business and let her stumble out the door without making any inappropriate advances. She doesn't bother hailing a cab because the walk would help sober off a little bit of the alcohol, and she enjoys the cool air that calms her nerves.

The darkness feels strangely comforting. It envelops her in a velvety black blanket with only the pinpricks of light in the sky offering her company. Her thoughts are still filled with images of him, but they slowly drift away as the night swallows up her vision, replacing her mind with only blank nothingness. The feeling is empty, yet strangely welcoming since it would at least help numb her extreme longing.

But what awaits her on her doorstep jolts her back to the unsettling feeling of life, filling the void with a rush of emotions that further stagger her gait as she approaches the source.

"Fuckin' hell, woman. It's 3AM on a _Tuesday_ night. Where da hell have you been!?" The gruff voice rings into her ears, and she wonders if she accidentally drank absinthe in her binge. Or maybe the hour-long walk rendered her insane instead of sober.

"Oi Maka, are you okay?" His hand reaches out to cup the burning cheek of her paralyzed face. "Shit, what's wrong?"

She must be dreaming. At first, she thought that she was hallucinating, but then she remembered that absinthe was only _rumoured_ to have such an effect, and it's not like she had actually drank such a vile substance tonight. Regardless of her dose of intoxication, the power of imagination can surely compete because the figure before her is as vivid as reality. Her cold fingers meet the backside of his hand that gently cradles her face, and despite the tangible warmth that spreads into her flesh, she is still convinced that he is a figment of her crazy mind.

"Just one last time, and I'll be able to move on," she whispers pleadingly, closing her eyes to cut off one of her senses, further accentuating the feeling of his touch. "I'm sorry for leaving you like that."

Before he can reassure her with words of comfort, his lips are met with her chaste kiss. She pecks him tentatively a few times, cracking open an eye to peek at his reaction, and when he responds with a signature smirk that also tickles the corner of her mouth, she then presses more deeply to savour every piece of his sinful texture.

Everything about Soul Evans was pure sin. From the hands that stroke into her lank ash blonde hair, to the tongue that devilishly slips past the barrier of her pink lips, he represented a desire so dangerous and god-forsakenly _tempting _that she could not muster the willpower to deny those dextrous fingers that now coil around her nape. She nevertheless manages to keep their embrace tame, still passionate but surprisingly controlled, perhaps due to her depleting energy that slows down her every movement, eventually rendering her completely limp when the fuel runs out.

Whether this was a dream or a lapse in her sanity, she concedes to the fact that it will be their last, and before her mind finally blanks out, she thanks the Demon God for gracing her with this fantasy.

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><p>In a perfect world, he would have made a cool entrance. Surprising her either at the hotel during her shift or at her doorstep in case she wasn't working, he wanted to see her big round eyes widening in shock as he casually approaches her, ammo of snarky comments fully loaded and ready to turn her into a gaping embarrassed mush. But unfortunately, the world was far from perfect, so he instead had to anxiously wait like some freaky stalker lurking around her apartment, sitting on the hard dirty floor for nearly <em>five<em> hours, only to have her finally arrive… drunk.

Their moment of passion dies down when she passes out in his arms, and despite the unpleasant taste of booze that now lingers in his mouth, he greatly appreciates every detail of this turn of events because it could have been much worse. In hindsight, he had made a very impulsive move, flying back to Death City without any plans or guarantees that Maka would want to see him again. He was also extremely lucky to stumble upon the right hotel staff member who didn't ask any questions and readily gave him Maka's address. He suspected that she must have been a friend because she sent him shy curious glances as if she knew something that she wasn't supposed to know.

He is still unsure of the explanation that he needs to give her, but he hopes that their kiss meant that she wanted him in her life again. He didn't want to appear desperate and it's not like he returned to DC _only_ for her—okay, maybe she was a major influence on his decision, but there were other incentives such as their thriving jazz scene that he wanted to explore and take part of.

It would have been perverted of him to lie next to her on the bed that he places her on, so he decides to keep his distance by camping out in her living room. After all, he clearly remembers what she can be like when awakened next to an unexpected male and he chuckles at the now-fond memory.

The soft plush surface of the couch feels like a blessing to his poor ass. It annoys him that after all the wait, he is still left with the unfinished business of his return speech, but now that his legs can relax on the comfortable seat that nearly feels like a massage to his aching muscles, the fatigue settles into his system and his lazy eyes droop further until they're fully shut. He lets the arms of slumber rock him into the lovely world of dreams.

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><p>Her hand reaches out to swat the buzzing noise and she is surprised to see that the source is not her alarm clock. The cellphone vibrates once more, notifying the arrival of another text message, so she decides to check it despite her still-drowsy state of mind.<p>

'_How was last night?'_

That's strange. She doesn't remember telling Tsubaki that she went out to the jazz club last night, so why was she asking such a question? But before composing a confused reply, she reads the next message that her friend sent right after.

'_Sorry! My last message may have sounded a little perverted. o.0 I meant to say, how was the reunion? I hope he didn't give you a scare.'_

Reunion? What the hell was she talking about? Her head can't process anything cryptic before she clears it with a nice hot shower, so she shuffles out of bed and heads straight for the bathroom. But when she opens her bedroom door, the answer to her question comes crashing down in the form of a certain white-haired man sprawled on her living room couch.

Her first instinct is to scream, but her throat is so dry that no sound escapes from her mouth. Her second reaction is to smack him awake and demand what was going on. And yet somehow, she chooses option three: gaping like an idiot because she still doesn't quite believe that it's actually him.

It doesn't help that she is terribly distracted by the way he is passed out, and the sun shining from her large window does weird halo-like effects to his now radiating presence. His head that hangs to the side leaves copious amounts of neck to bite, and his pants ride lower than usual, while his shirt is slightly pulled up, presumably from his hand scratching his stomach in the night.

Her legs move on their own and she finds herself already by his side, inspecting him as if he was a rare item that fell from the sky. Just a poke, she tells herself. She needs to confirm that he is real because she can't trust her mere eyes. Her nervous finger nudges into the flesh of his stomach, feeling the hard surface of his abs, and she continues to trace around the grooves, savouring the texture of his skin that was once only a memory.

What about his taste, she wonders. Deep down, she knows that her actions are shameful, but the lust overtakes her spirit like a starving child confronted with a hot meal, so her tongue dives in for a quick lick. He tastes like sweet nostalgia, and she can neither stop the emotions flowing into tears nor the lips that trail kisses around his navel, edging ever dangerously to the barrier of boxers that her busy fingers tug down until she is confronted with _it_.

He is flaccid, of course he is, since he is still dead to the external world and a hard-on is probably the last priority on his mind. She realises that it is the first time seeing his member so limp and harmless…_pitiful_, even. She should probably cover up his sad state with his pants, but she can't seem to ignore it after bearing witness, much like the way she always felt compelled to help a person in need, to give them a hand.

Her fingers wrap around the unimpressive appendage, pumping it gently to see if there would be any immediate effects. But it is only when her tongue offers aid that it begins to swell, growing in length and strength. She treats the activity like a training session where she won't be judged by her performance; he was asleep after all, so she took advantage of the situation to buff up her skills.

Meanwhile, Soul is having the best wet dream of the century. He thinks about all the good stuff in life like raw fish, jazz, green eyes and blowjobs. Or the sight of an ash blonde head in between his legs. Oh wait, that can't be right…

"What the fuck," he mutters under his breath, but she hears him loud and clear.

Her green eyes lock into his dumb stare, and she accidently bites down on the bratwurst because her immediate reaction was to explain herself, but she forgot that it was rude to talk with her mouth full. He shrieks like a little girl and she releases herself from him, cowering in fear from the dangerous embers that light his teary eyes.

Clocking him over the head with a book had brought them where they were today. It had caused her so much despair, a whirlwind of emotions that would last more than a lifetime. But now, she managed to surpass it, and she couldn't fathom the repercussions after maiming his other little head with her _teeth_.

A two-week voucher of personal massages will definitely not compensate for the damage this time. Seems like she would be paying him back for all of eternity, since the body that awkwardly pounces onto her confirms that it's not her job on the line. It's her life that he wants to take.


End file.
